A Hurricane, a Generator, and the Dryer Plug Apocalypse

Ashland, Virginia may in fact be the spiritual Center of the Universe

A malevolent ice storm is approaching our little slice of heaven on Lake Jeanette in Greensboro, North Carolina today, testing all the work I have done on managing anxiety over the last 65 years.

We’ve lived through several ice storms. The worst was in Columbia, Missouri, in the early 2000s, where the ice was so thick and slick our two golden retrievers needed wool socks just to walk in the yard or driveway without sliding on their butts back to the front door. As best I remember, the roads weren’t drivable for what felt like seven generations of raccoons.

The oncoming storm reminded us of our first month in Doswell, Virginia. Although both Adele and I worked in Richmond, we were seduced by the spirit of the Triple Crown winner, Secretariat, to live in the rural town where he was born—and by a house with five acres of trees and two acres of grass on the Newfound River (more like a big creek), overlooking Newfound Falls. We loved everything about that house, including the world’s greatest neighbors and inheriting a John Deere lawn tractor.

Our old house on Newfound Falls and the Newfound Falls River

During our first month in Virginia, we experienced nature’s wrath by living through a hurricane and then an earthquake.

The previous owners had included a gasoline-powered generator and a connection for it to our house’s electrical system in the sale. This was really important to us, because without power we’d lose both water and our septic pump. A lack of a septic pump created visions of a microbial swamp on our lowest floor.

The Weather Channel spent two weeks spreading dire predictions of a hurricane, keeping us glued to the TV and contemplating life’s great existential questions. Those predictions brought my anxiety to a boil, so I went out to test the generator. It worked. All was good.

The hurricane was scheduled to arrive midafternoon on a Saturday. Feeling confident, I tested the generator again that morning. After enough pulls of the cord to dislocate my shoulder, it became clear it wasn’t going to work.

In high school, there was a clique known as the “gearheads”—people who wore leather jackets, souped up their cars, and knew the purpose of every nook and cranny in a gasoline engine. I wasn’t one of them. In fact, I was the furthest thing from one of them. Although I was and am somewhat handy, two areas where I would flunk the U.S. masculinity test were generator engines and electrical issues.

So, I needed help.

We had met our next-door neighbors, Harry and Linda, who lived several acres away and had just moved in. They’d previously lived on a farm, and we associated anyone from a farm with grade-A skills in all things mechanical and electrical. So we called Harry—something we ended up doing quite often. For example, he’s a great person to call if there’s a large copperhead making its home on the steps from the garage to the house.

Harry worked with me on the generator for several minutes. Despite his considerable skills, he couldn’t get it to fire up.

Harry’s next-door neighbor—also several acres away—was a retired tugboat captain named Scott. Not only that, but he’d built the dream house he lived in. Harry sent out an SOS, assuming it would be recognized by a former sailor, and Scott arrived ready to help.

We spent the next hour taking the generator fully apart, ruling out every fixable cause. It was fruitless. But I could now pass the first entry test to be a gearhead by taking apart an engine and putting it back together. And despite the frustration, we’d begun what became a deep friendship with our neighbors.

By this time, it was approaching 11:00 a.m., with the storm expected around 12:30 PM. The last time I’d lived through a hurricane (Hurricane Ike in Houston), I lost power for two weeks. The thought of two weeks with no water and a nonfunctional septic system made my bladder hurt just imagining it.

We lived about eight miles from Ashland, Virginia—now made famous this year by a larcenous raccoon that broke into our old liquor store and enjoyed its contents.

The famous Ashland Racoon

There was a small Ace Hardware store in town. Desperate, I called.

With great embarrassment, I sheepishly asked if they had any generators in stock.

“Yes,” the employee said. “We just got a shipment in.”

“We’ll be there in ten minutes,” I said.

Ace Hardware in Ashland and an old Briggs and Stratton generator

So Adele, our Bichon Frise Halley, and I broke all traffic laws getting to the hardware store just as the wind picked up and the sky darkened. We walked in and saw several generators on the floor. We picked one out, put it in the car, and the three of us hugged in relief.

We drove home, gassed it up, and sauntered over to plug it into our house—only to discover the plug didn’t fit the socket. Instead of a normal generator plug, we needed a dryer plug.

The wind and rain had started, but Ace was still open. So Adele and I, with Halley as our emotional support animal, got back in the car. Windshield wipers on full speed, we returned to the store. Once there, we discovered there was no cord with the appropriate plug on each end.

Given that neither Adele, Halley, nor I were comfortable with complex electrical wiring, our spirits were broken. The first phase of the hurricane had arrived. And we imagined two weeks with no water and the pain our bladders would feel trying to hold it in.

There was, however, one other person in the store besides the attendant. He turned out to be an angel disguised as a small-town electrician. Seeing our distress, he walked over, stacked a couple of boxes, took out his knife, removed our plug, wired a new dryer plug onto our cord, and finished in less than five minutes. He refused payment and sent us on our way.

Then I swear I heard a bell ring, so he must have gotten his wings.

Adele, Halley, and I hugged again. We sped home—this time breaking traffic laws during a hurricane, which felt excusable since we were the only fools driving on a rural highway in a storm. The generator started with ease. We sighed a huge sigh of relief.

Within an hour or two, we lost power—but only for two days. We also lost a boatload of tree branches and a few trees in the woods.

But we had water. Our bladders were happy. We bonded with great neighbors. I gained skills that made me a potential gearhead. And we will never forget the superhero electrician who appeared at a rural Ace Hardware store during a hurricane in a town now famous for a larcenous raccoon.

And it’s all true—a story about how my anxiety met its match in kindness, improvisation, and a small-town electrician with a pocketknife.

_____

Postscript- Irony also had a part in the story. Despite their best efforts to help fix our generator, we learned later that Harry did not have a generator. We also learned later that Scott had a generator. But, when he got around to firing his up, it didn’t work. I wish we could say that we returned the favor allowing them to drink our water and flush the toilet as much they wanted. We certainly would have, if we had known.

In retrospect, there must have been a supernatural power hanging around at the Ace hardwood store in Ashland that day in 2011. It must have spread in 2025 to the Ashland ABC liquor store nearby. The supernatural power was discovered there by a larcenous racoon, who found a love for fine scotch. The racoon also learned the consequences of overdoing it. You just don’t usually see a live racoon passed out in a bathroom.

The tag line that residents put on a sign welcoming travelers to their town describes Ashland as the “Center of the Universe.” Perhaps there is something to that.